


More letters

by FrangipaniFlower



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Love, Peter Quinn is not a victim, the letter has never been read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 19:09:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6919555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrangipaniFlower/pseuds/FrangipaniFlower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My answer to one of the prompts here: http://carrie-quinn.livejournal.com/113491.html#comments</p>
<p>The letter has never been read, Quinn's busy building his new life and then gets a call from Dar Adal: Cheerio, there was a tiny mishap, the letter's been posted by accident, soooo sorry, gotta run, bye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More letters

**Author's Note:**

> To all my LJ carrie/quinn community friends, girls, it us incredible how much fun I have with you!

Life was finally taking some interesting turns again. His newly founded private security firm slowly took a route towards success, word of mouth spread, one satisfied client recommending him to another one, naming him as an extremly discreet and skilled provider of high end security solutions.

Not that he needed the money but he liked being back in the swing of professional challenges. 

Same was true for intellectual challenges. Since three months he was enrolled at NYLS in the part-time evening devision, studying International Law. After 15 years of finding his ways around the Geneva Conventions it was a nice change to actually learn what they meant and how one could and should use them amongst other laws in building human rights law suits. Theoretically.

After the most painful, boring and depressing recovery he had finally left his last rehab facility six months ago. No need to process out of the agency, he had been out out, outer than out - cover blown, fine motor skills ruined and right leg constant fighting fatigue spasms each night - without need to mention it.

Dar had brought him his dismissal papers personally, they had dinner together, shared a couple of great whiskys, gotten really shit-faced and sentimental. Somalia, Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran, Syria, ah, yes, and remember Kongo, holy fuck, no wait, wasn't it Uganda? That kind of evening.

And then he was a free man.

He had returned to the rehab facility a few days later, waiting in the parking lot, until she came out. Just checking if his instincts still worked. As far as he was concerned she had been around his room just a bit too often. But she was cute. 

He liked nurses.

And she had no moral crises about a former patient (well, he had left the clinic five days ago, that was a former patient by definition) fucking her. He still could do it. And he didn't need a grade in psychology to know that going for brunette, curls, big boobs and not the brightest candle on the cake in terms of brains was nothing but avoiding. But she was nice. And just wanted some fun. It lasted about six weeks. Kind of long, at least for him.

Carrie had visited him five times. It had taken him that long to convince to leave him the fuck alone. That and putting her on the list of the no access-persons. She had written him a letter then. Which he hadn't answered. He knew she had settled in New York, running her german boss' foundation branch and UN relations there. She was in the fucking papers every week or so. Her hair was shorter now. Hilary Clinton had named her into her shadow cabinet. As Middle East Counselor. New York Times loved her. Single mom, brilliant, beautiful, what's not to love about that?

He knew now he'd been depressed for about probably five years, maybe even longer. He had understood, without discussing it with too much detail with his shrink, that his fixation on her had been part of that depression and had been unhealthy. He had dealt with his depression. Gaw, it had been awful, he'd been a sobbing mess several times, but after a while of those sessions, working through his messed up childhood, his guilt, anger and pain, and tons of colourful pills - he had started to feel better. And better.

After he had re-learned to tie his shoes and empty a plate in a social acceptable way they had started to plan his discharge. He still needed therapy several times a week so he had stayed in New York. No hidden agenda, just therapy being the reason for it.

Yeah, well.

She still was in his mind, of course she was. He still loved her. He wasn't obsessed anymore, which was good, at least he thought so. He could live without here. He could even date and fuck another woman. But he still loved her.

So he had reached out, two months ago, had called her and asked her to meet for coffee and catch up. Her schedule was busy but she had found a slot ten days later (ten days!!!!! But well, he had it coming.). 30 minutes, as she had to go on evening function and wanted to go home first for an hour to have dinner with Frannie.

She'd been happy to see him, how well he was doing. And she'd asked him out for dinner for Friday a week later. Which had been fun. Back to easy banter, sometimes with a streak of melancholy. Which they both ignored. But, how successful is ignoring when both parties have noticed it?

They'd met five times since then. He had kissed her after the third date, in his car, in the restaurant's parking lot. And again in front of her appartment building, but just very short, she'd been afraid the doorman might see them.

But when he'd called her the next day to ask her out for the following Friday she had agreed. Greek, this time. They had agreed on taking things casual during dinner. No obligations, just...giving it a try... Nightcup at her place. There was an elevator from her parking garage directly to her floor, so no doorman spoiling the fun. He had left an hour later when Frannie called for her mum after a nightmare, so not much had happened. 

Taking things casual was great. Cause it implied there was no need to speak about their past, Berlin and what had happened there. They talked, of course they did, actually more than ever before. About recent things, her work, the upcoming presedential elections, Donald Trump, he could do excellent stand up comedy about Donald and she had been in tears of laughter (and wasn't that a nice change?), about his work, the stuff he read for his evening classes, Frannie. It was like they just met and started at that point, here, in the present time, no bagagge from the past.

After the fifth date things had gotten heated, including going third base, they had been to the movies and he had walked her home. They had sneaked into the building through the parking garage, breathless kisses already in the elevator. He had waited behind a column in the hallway until the babysitter had left and then they had induldged in pleasure until early morning.

This had been last week, followed by lunch midweek, sadly in public. Yesterday had been their seventh date, a vernissage in a gallery displaying contemporary photography, followed by dinner at a small vietnamese restaurant across the road, not far from his place. When they'd kissed in his car and he had offered to drive her home, she'd whispered in his ear, she'd rather see his place. 

He had always been a neat freak and, after learning interesting things about how to avoid relapsing in his shrink sessions, had really made an effort to eat healthy food and maintain basic house keeping in the nicest appartment he'd ever had. With furniture he had actually bought for himself. Including nice bed sheets, two sets actually, and a coffee machine. He even had china and cutlery now and sometimes cooked. So there was no reason not to take her home with him. Because he had a home now.

His doorman wasn't a problem. But he wasn't friends with Hilary and hadn't a young child living with him. So not such a delicate matter at all.

They had fucked for the first time last night. And the second and the third. Her babysitter was sleeping over, she had faked a conference in Washington so she had been able to stay the night. Which brought on the fourth time, under the shower, in the morning.

He had gotten fresh bagles, and they had breakfast together before she had to leave, after a lingering kiss, saying her week would be busy but maybe Saturday if he was free. He wasn't, had planned to meet with some other students to work on an essay about the history of division of powers in democratic societies followed by dinner at a restaurant in Brooklyn but he'd try to move that to Sunday.

So now he was cleaning the kitchen and musing about last night which had been a memorable one. Hands, fingers, mouths, tongues everywhere, before he had finally entered her. The first round had been rough, breathless and urgent but then they had taken their sweet time. She'd fallen asleep soon afterwards, still naked and in his arms. They'd woken up a few hours later, still hungry for each other and he had fucked her from behind while she had knelt on his bed. On her request. Just for the record, she had asked for it. She'd climaxed while doing obscene noises and he had thought, obviously after he had recovered from his orgasm, which had been mind-blowing, that it was kind of an irony that she was the best fuck he ever had had. The session under the shower supported his theory.

That still left the emotional side of the matter untouched and unsolved but honestly, he could deal with that. Because they were having a great time and he wasn't going to spoil the fun by re-transforming into the obsessed mess he'd been for too long. And what would or would not happen - he'd find that out soon enough.

His week would be busy, two new clients, and a lot of reading for school. 

Then his phone rang. Dar. That was unusual but not too unusual. He phoned when he was hitting the town so they could share a beer or two. He even had done some under the radar-surveillance work for the agency twice.

-Dar.

-Peter. Sorry to call that early.

-No problem. Old habits are hard to kill. Coming to New York anytime soon?

-No. This is about something else. Just wanted to give you a heads up. Have you heard from Carrie recently?

Well, you bet I have, I had her screaming and begging in my bed tonight.

-Eh, not recently, we met for coffee couple weeks ago. She's busy and Trump hates her.

-I can absolutely understand him. Well, remember that letter you wrote four years ago? Before leaving for Syria? HR messed it up when transferring your file to the archive. So the letter was mailed two days ago. I thought you might wanna know. Listen, I have the White House on line two, talk to you soon.

No, you won't talk to me soon cause I am a dead man. I'll instantly die from shame. Or shoot me. Or maybe get another stroke, requiring five years of rehab but please never regain my long-term memory. The letter.

Please. not. the. letter.

Not now. Not today. I just fucked her brains out and asked her out for dinner on Saturday. I was glad there was no morning after-freak out, am pondering about my chances with her right now. Finally.

Fate was a fucking bitch, coiled up somewhere in the shadows, waiting for him to recover, overcome his crazy possessive obsession and depression, build a life, actually even date her and then, a mere hour after she's been moaning his name in a litany of obscenity, it stinged deadly.

He remembered every word. That had been some fucking heavy stuff. Darkness. Death. Had no life. False glimmer. 

And he remembered how he had felt while writing. From the highest high down to the deepest low. From kissing her to not being good enough for her in less than 30 hours. And while he had meant every word he had written he was not that person anymore. He was done with seeking death every other day.

And he could explain that. She probably knew he had been depressed. And even if not, he had no problem telling her, with a decades-long history of mental illness herself, she would have no issues with that.

What was difficult was the last sentence 'I loved you.' The l- word. Not taking things casual at all. And past tense. Plus all the events which had made him write that later. 

Whatever they were, the letter would mess it up. Irrevocably. She must not read it.

So time for action. She hadn't read it yet so there was still hope. She hadn't been home since yesterday morning, so maybe it lay unread on a desk. Or was to be delivered only today. Time to pull some strings and call in some favours.

Ninety minutes later he pulled up the kerb in front of her building with an unbranded van and entered the lobby with briefcase and a note pad, wearing jeans and an ironed shirt, approaching the doorman's desk.

He knew he had received a phone call from Carrie's office thirty minutes ago. Just a couple of minutes after a Washington number had called her office, announcing there'd be a security evaluation site inspection in Mrs Mathison's flat today. All members of Clinton's inner circle were getting a security upgrade, after Trump's recent verbal escapades. The Washington number had been Rob's number at Langley, so when the secretary had called back to verify the number, she'd reached the CIA switchboard, which put her straight through to her requested contact - Rob again. So nothing suspicious here.

He had announced John Campell from Lighthouse Securities to be the chosen contractor, coming for a quick first scan today. Then the secretary had reveived a fax with John Campell's copied ID. That part was critical, he had to rely on Carrie not being around when the fax arrived. But he knew her day would be busy, she had said she'd be in meetings all morning.

But so far so good, the doorman knew he was coming, checking his ID and leading him upstairs. So Carrie hadn't been around.

Once he was in her flat his cover story would allow him to sneak around in every room. If he was lucky he'd locate, collect and abduct the evidence within minutes. Which just left the problem of having to pay her office a visit to collect that damn fax with his photo. He'd buy coffee and hit there just before lunch time. As soon as the secretary was on her break, he'd sneak in, collect the fax and surprise Carrie. Or maybe flowers? No, something more subtle. Maybe theatre tickets for their date next Saturday. Or a book for Frannie. Yeah, more casual.

But first he had to find that fucking letter.

After 20 minutes he was pretty sure it wasn't in the flat yet. He'd engaged into casual small talk with Henry, the doorman, throughout the whole encounter, weather, football, upcoming elections, all kinds of stuff. So he was pretty sure Henry wouldn't get suspicious when he carefully steered the conversation towards the gist of the matter, asking if he wasn't needed downstairs to receive the mail.

The answer was kind of fucking the timing, mail wasn't delivered before noon, sometimes even later, New York postal service had gotten worse and worse in Henry's nearly four decades as a doorman.

Yeah, tell me about problems, I'm fucked.

He spent hours in the café opposite of her building, waiting for the postman, not even daring to read the newspaper cause he didn't wanna risk to miss him. Only distraction was a text message from Carrie in hour one of his mission: ,Hey, just thought about you. Looking forward to Saturday. Carrie'

He waited two hours before he answered: 'Hey, just saw your message. Busy morning. Looking forward to seeing you on Saturday.'

There was no reason to hide that he was looking forward to seeing her, not after she texted first and they'd fucked four times last night - or was there? No, he decided, not at all. And, his morning had indeed been busy.

He mused how easy this would have been if she still lived in a Washington suburb, classic mailbox outside her fence, just stroll by, maybe jump two fences to approach from behind, collect the evidence, done deal. Here, he couldn't even climb the façade of her apartment building. Well, he could, and surely New York had seen worse stunts, but she had window alarms. Which wouldn't be a problem but he had not enough time to replace them and he wanted to avoid scaring her by coming home and seeing someone had broken into her place. So, classical earth-bound technique.

The postman didn't come at noon. He came at fucking 3.45 pm, having a chat with Henry. Henry disappered right after the post guy had left, propably distributing the mail to the residents of the small, exclusive building, property of Otto Düring's foundation. That guy was some rich turd.

He knew his cover was mediocre at best but what choice had been left? So he went inside again and told Henry he'd forgotten a screwdriver in Carrie's flat (which he deliberatly had). The man accompanied him upstairs again and there it was: The letter. On a small desk next to the entrance door. He placed his notepad on it so he could pick it up with the said note pad later. But first he had to fake search his screwdriver. Well, that was a quick one, he knew where it was.

Relief started to flood through his veins. He'd made it. Abducted the letter from Carrie's flat.

Well, nearly.

-Mind telling me why you kind of break in into my appartment and try to steal my mail?

A very familiar voice, and a very angry Carrie Mathison, holding his notepad in one hand and the letter in the other hand. Well, it was kind of the oldest attempt to steal documents in the world, so no wonder she had made him in seconds. She was a spy, she knew shit as well as he did.

Turned out her secretary had been indeed his undoing. She got suspicious and had informed Carrie. Who had called the chief campaigner's office and learnt there was no security upgrade. She had seen the fax, called Henry, briefed him to find out what he was looking for and had learnt about his particular interest in the arrival time of the mail. She'd waited in the parking garage, Henry had texted her when Quinn had been back. She had always been bright.

-I don't get it, Quinn. What sick shit is this now? Explain it to me.

While ranting she tore the manila envelope open and pulled out the white envelope.

He was still trying to find words to explain himself. But what was there to say? The biggest problem wasn't the 'I loved you' or the darkness which he had felt for years when writing this. Not even that he had written her. The problem was that he had had all those feelings, had opened up the night of the wake - and then had left. He couldn't even explain that to himself. Never had been able too. And touching that topic now, and all the implications it had, was certainly not taking things casual.

-Carrie, I...

-Wait. Quinn, that is your handwriting. Why the fuck is Langley sending me an enevelope, a letter with your handwriting?

What the fucking hell.There simply was no way to find a way around it.

-I wrote it to you. The day I left. In case...I don't come back.

-Well, when do they decide to deliver these? Define 'don't come back'. Cause it's not that you came back in an acceptable span of time.

-When death's confirmed.

-How many of these letters did you write?

She was still fucking angry, scrutinizing him, her lips pressed together. His mind briefly supplied the flickering image of the said lips pressed onto his mouth and, a little later, calling out his name, not helpful.

Maybe that was a way out, maybe he should just say, uhm, let me think, one for Emily, then three for Hannah, I was long with Hannah, ah, and Rebecca, well, for her I wrote seven or was it eight, she was hot, you know it's nothing, I keep them on my computer, add three personal details, that's it, so maybe twenty or thirty.

-Just one.

Fuck, what was he doing. The plan was to say 'thirty', stick with the plan.

-That was some fucked up shit you did back there. Why don't you want me to read it? I mean, apparently you went great lengths today to prevent me from reading it. Even pulling some Langley strings. Don't look at me like that, Quinn, even you can't come up with faked IDs within hours. I know you had help at Langley. So, why am I not going to read this letter now?

-I'm not that person anymore. But if you read it, the words will never go away. And I'd rather don't have that.

-Why didn't you just tell me this? And asked me not to read it?

Hah, as if Carrie Mathison ever let go.

-Cause you never let go as soon as you smell blood. And cause I'd rather had kept the mere existence of the letter from you.

She weighed his answer, he could see her brain working. He could jump at her, knock her out cold and take the letter but probably that wasn't a great idea.

-I wrote you letters too. One every week. 

Wait, wait, wait. That was an unexpected turn of events.

-But I never received one. Well, only one.

-I sent you the first. 18 months ago. But you didn't answer. So I didn't mail any of the others. But I wrote you every week. I still do.

The more primal area of his brain supplied a not helpful 'Hah, I'd like to read the letter of THIS week' but he managed to surpress this train of thought. Careful now. The letter was still in her hand but they were talking about her now, not about him.

-Henry, I guess we are fine here, thank you.

-Why would you do that? Writing letters to me?

-Why did you write that letter here?

Good point. But he can't say it. Not yet.

-Would you want me to read these letters now?

-I'd prefer not. Some of them were...right after Berlin...and when you rejected seeing me...

-So you yelled at me in writing?

Unfuckingbelievable.

-Among other things, yes.

-18 months, so about 72 letters ranting and yelling?

-No, other things too.

Oh, what would he give to read those letters. She had thought of him all those months.

-Why did you do that?

-Because I loved you, asshole.

Past tense. All those missed opportunities.

-And when I called you?

-Fuck, Quinn, you are still so full of it, aren't you? This is about you, not about me.

She was yelling now.

-I thought, you finally came round the bend. I was happy when you called me. Fucking happy and excited, ok? Satisfied now?

-But you weren't available until ten fuckings days later. For thirty minutes. You handled me like a business contact.

That bitch.

-Fuck you, Quinn. What else should I have done? You put me on the list of the unwanted visitors, you denied me access to your room, your clinic, your life. After I found you in that fucking chamber in which you ended up because of me. And because of being a fucking addict to putting your life out there, into harm's way. Taking out a jihadists cell single-handedly, gut-shot and septic. What the fuck were you thinking? I told you, I'd be back. I told you, I'd be back and next thing is, you're gone. And then I see you dying on TV, breaking news. I watched that video fourtythree times to find you. Have you any idea, how that felt? Have you any idea, how it felt to sit on the other side of the glass and see you dying? And how it felt when you survived, just to throw me out of your room? So, yes, when you called, after 18 fucking months, I handled you like a business contact. Because that was the only way how I could handle it. Because I have been waiting for you for 18 fucking months.

Silence. Heavy silence.

-Well, I'm kind of 48 months ahead of you. Don't tell me a thing about waiting.

While her speech had been angry, rapid and agitated, his words were spoken with a low, soft voice.

Here we go, he thought, hour of truth-telling. We had it coming.

Next thing he knew is he was kissing her. Not tentative and hesitant, no, messy, hard, desperate. He had no idea how he closed the gap between them but this seemed to be a matter they couldn't solve with words. The epic confrontation they had coming for the longest time.

She kissed him back and slapped his face at the same time. Clothes were torn away with the greatest urgency, leaving a trail of debris towards her bedroom. He was in her before they hit the mattrass, pumping and thrusting a rapid clip. She scratched his back and bit his shoulder while his grasp around her left wrist would probably bruise her.

But he couldn't care less. She had it coming. He had it coming. 

She screamed when she climaxed while he was still fucking her with long hard strokes, tossing her head on the pillow, legs around his waist, digging her heels into his buttocks, even if he wanted to he couldn't pull out, she was burrying him inside her. A few more short hard thrusts and he felt his orgasm approaching, taking him from the base of his spine while he was drilling into her, longing to hurt and love her, to comfort and injure her, in equal parts at the same time.

And then it was over. 

They laid on her bed, a mess of entwined arms, legs, bruised, battered and bitten bodies, breathing heavily. Silent for a long time.

-You were an ass for leaving after that night.

-You were a bitch for not calling before you drove to Missouri. And for not letting me fly out there to be with you. 

-You think, it makes us even?

-No. You came back after two days and I...didn't...

-What did the letter say?

-Not enough. Too much. A lot of depressed thoughts. Desperation. Dark symbolism. Death wishes. Pretty poetic though.

-Per definition, one can't declare a piece one wrote himself poetic. That's for the readers to judge. Anything else?

-Yeah. An unsufficient love declaration. And yours?

-Pretty much the same. Think you can do better?

-Yeah, think so. Wait, now?

-Of course now. Or want me to read the letter?

He knew defeat. And this clearly was defeat. She was fucking great. And he never had a chance when it came to her. But it was ok. He could say it.

-I loved you. I've been in love with you for an awful fucking long time. And I still love you. Although in a much healthier way now. I'm done with dying.

-I was late to the party. Too late. 

-That's not enough, Carrie.

-Oh, fuck, come on, you really wanna make me say it? Waiting for your for 18 months and begging you, on my fucking knees on your fucking bed, to fuck me wasn't enough?

Nice try, Carrie, but not with me.

-Yes. Or I'll read all of your letters. Might take me a few days. And then I'll frame each page and decorate my office and flat with these.

-Believe me, not a great idea. Unless, you want your customers to read how you are named as prick, dick, asshole, self-righteous emotional fuckwit or motherfucker.

-Uh, you were really angry. I like 'emotional fuckwit', kind of goes as recommandation in our ex-business.

-Trust me, if you'd found me in that chamber I would have had to prepare for a real chew out, too. Be glad it was just letters and not a live performance. You are not superman, Quinn, and not close to Batman. One can't take out a terror cell flying solo.  
And I get you kind of ended up there because of me but I didn't ask you to die for me. 

-I learned that the hard way, Carrie, trust me.

Wait, she still hadn't said it. Time for another...interrogation technique.

He disentangled his legs from hers and flipped her onto her back.

-Anything else, or just colourful displays of your anger with me?

That said, he grazed one of her nipples with his thumb. But she didn't even flinch.

-You learn that at your new school? That's why it is evening classes? Interrogation techniques?

-Oh no, the honey trap? I learnt that early. Never failed me. Although I have to admit you are the toughest nut I ever had to crack.

Nuzzling at her neck while talking, a bit more friction at her nipples.

-You know that evidence collected under torture doesn't speak true and may not be used in trial.

Sucking her nipple for a few seconds before answering. At least her breathing increased.

-As if you ever had a moral crisis about that before.

Continuing the effort. She was panting now. Fine.

-I changed.

-I know. Me too. Just tell me to stop and I'll stop. Or just say it and I'll finish this.

Dipping a finger into her. Slooooow movements. Enough to make her feel good and crave more but absolutely not enough to be satisfying.

-Oh, come on, Quinn, how many woman had you in your life coming four times in one night? You might be an excellent lay, but nobody is that great to perform that without an emotional bond. At least, not for me.

It was getting better and better. He should send flowers to the poor soul in HR at Langley who had posted the letter.

-Five times.

-What?

-Let's say the time span we are looking at is 24 hours. So it is five times. And I intend to make it six, if that's not clear by now. But that depends on you.

Bending down and kissing her, but pulling away when she wanted to add tongue. Keeping an indolent pace with his finger.

-You really need me to say it?

-You'll feel better once you said it.

Introducing a second finger but keeping perfectly still. She groaned, from frustration or arousal, or both, who knew.

-Did your shrink tell you this?

-Among other things, yes. And she was right.

Sucking and biting her nipples, enjoying her moan.

-She? Did you fuck her or how did you cover that matter in your sessions?

-No, I didn't fuck her. She was like sixty-five years old and thought I was the most interesting case she ever had. But imagine, I opened up. I talked. About myself. My feelings. My fears. My fucked-up career choices. My killings. My love for you. My depression. My childhood. I even cried. And you know what? It helped. I went through hell. But hell is behind me now. I grew up. And hell is behind me.

Fingers once in, once out, and in again. She writhed.

-So what now? Are we saying it like every night then?

-I don't mind saying it. You don't have to say it at all, your choice. But I'll say it as often as I feel like. Maybe once a month.

Adjusting pace and pressure, wouldn't be long now. She knew it too.

-Just once a month?

He laughed, loud and genuine. A wonderful sound.

-Oh, Carrie, I don't mind saying it every day, five fucking times a day or whatever you need. Obviously I'm not the one having difficulties with it. I love you. See? I love you, Carrie.

-Fuck you, Quinn. I fucking love you too. You know that, do you?

He withdrew his fingers, brought himself up on his elbows above her and looked down at her while entering her.

-I know, Carrie. And you don't have to say it ever again. Unless you want to say it. But you can't stop me from saying it. As long as you don't send me away. I could deal with that, now. You don't owe me anything. If you want to keep it casual, fine. Then I'll walk away, sooner or later. Or you do. I'll still love you then, you'll always have your spot in my heart. But I'll survive, maybe find someone else every now and then, maybe not. But I'll be fine.

He had started slow, long thrusts while talking, knowing he couldn't keep this going forever.

-I don't want you to walk away, Quinn. So just stay and I'll fucking say it. Like every Sunday?

They both had to laugh and he sank into her embrace, kissing her, slow and conscious, synchronizing the movements of his hips. She whispered it into his ear while she came and said it again when he came, this time even without her signature curse, just a simple 'I love you'.

She re-started cursing when she checked her watch five minutes later, noticing the nanny and Frannie would be here any minute now.

He helped her cleaning the hallway from the worst evidence while she jumped back into some clothes.

He was about to kiss her good-bye, thankfully no nanny and child in sight yet, when she murmured 'Wanna come back tonight?' against his lips.

-I'd like that. But I'm busy. I have class tonight and usually we go for a couple of beers afterwards, some of the other students and I.

-And you wouldn't wanna skip that?

-Actually, no, I wouldn't wanna skip that.

He could see her brain clicking and working. In a way this was more critical than their all discussion in bed. Cause he knew she loved him, saying it or not. But understanding things were different now cause he was different, that was key.

-Well, I'm busy tomorrow. But maybe Thursday then?

-I'll have class then too. Until 10 pm. But I'd like to come over afterwards, if that's not too late.

-I'd like that very much.

That smile, those eyes.

-Maybe I could pop in tonight, around midnight, just to say good night then?

-Sure. I'd like that too.

 

And this is how it was then. He kept his flat for about another two years but cancelled the lease when they noticed he hadn't been there for more than four months. He was busy, she was busy, especially after the elections, commuting between Washington and New York several times the week. His hours were more flexible, so he started to spend a lot if time with Frannie. She preferred being with him over being with a nanny or an au pair. So it was mostly him now taking care of her in the afternoons. He sold his security company after three years when their baby boy was born, just doing some consultant work, every now and then, but mostly being a stay-at-home-dad, while Carrie earned the big bucks.

The l-word was used frequently, not just on Sundays, although he was always more generous with it as Carrie herself.

The letters were never read.

One day, they put them in a wooden box, poured concrete around the neat bundles, and took the now very heavy box with them on a trip with their sailing boat. They buried the box somewhere in the Atlantic, without even taking the coordinates.

 

Maybe fate wasn't such a bitch after all.


End file.
